Broadway Baby
by drama-princess
Summary: Broadway. A place where the very streets glitter, where dreams come true. . . or are destroyed. A young playwright. A jaded actress. Can love resist the siren song of fame? Chapter 3!
1. Rain On My Parade

A/N: So drama-princess is back. . . and she's trying her hand at a new (for her) genre! I've got some sad (or happy-- it depends how your preference runs) news for everyone, though. I'm putting The Aspects of Love and How to Win the Heart of a Poet on hiatus. I do plan to finish both fics, and I probably will continue my series, but for the moment, I just can't work up the enthusiasm to to write them. So, in the meantime, here's a modern day romance set on the streets of Broadway. Feedback is not required, but highly appreciated, and will help segments come faster.   
  
Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge and all characters related to it are the property of Baz Luhrmann, while all songs (unless otherwise mentioned) are the property of their respective owners. All original material (characters, plotline) are copyright me. Song used in this chapter was Don't Rain on My Parade from Funny Girl.  
  
Dedication: To the splendiferous Kara, who pioneered the modern-day genre with the absolutely wonderful Crazy Love, and whose writing had a great deal of influence on this story. You rock, chica.   
  
And now, on with the show!   
  


~Broadway Baby~  
  


Chapter 1: Rain on My Parade  
  
Don't tell me not to live, just sit and putter.  
Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter!  
Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade. . .  
  
Barbara Streisand's soaring, forceful voice faded into silence as Chris Montomgery took the CD out of his player. He looked around at the white, sterile room that he'd spent his last nineteen years existing in. What traces of life he'd managed to instill in this poster room for suburban mediocrity had vanished as he'd gathered his possessions for the bend in the road he was about to travel along. Gone were the dog-eared books he'd found solace in during the hell of public school. Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Nathaniel Hawthorne, James Joyce-- all his fellow dreamers had been neatly packed up into cardboard boxes. He ran a hand over the lid slowly, wishing that he had time to curl up on his windowseat and lose himself in the beautiful stories they told.   
  
Chris was a dreamer. Everyone who knew him acknowledged that, whether it be in his father's disgusted rants to his best friend's gentle teasing. His soft, blue-green gaze was always focused off to the horizon. And above all things he dreamed about, he dreamed about love. He spent long hours curled up, reading about the great loves of fiction, thrilling to the soul-changing experiences the lovers always shared. The rest of his life was shallow and cramped, filled with unsympathetic family members and fellow students who noticed him only to proclaim him gay.   
  
Chris bit back a wince at that memory. He didn't have anything against people like that-- after all, one of his (few) friends had been gay, but he sometimes wished that he could have spoken to a girl without receiving offers to go shopping. One of the many reasons he was unspeakably grateful for his high school diploma.   
  
Chris, you've got to get away from here, his best friend since childhood had advised him the day he left for New York to become a Broadway producer. He'd been some ten years older than Chris, but they'd shared a bond closer than brothers. I'm worried about you, Little Prince. I don't know how you're going to do without me. Come on up when you're ready to be a famous playwright, okay?   
  
Chris raised his lonely gaze to the walls that revealed no trace of the colourful posters that had so recently been packed away. The famous Broadway shows that were portrayed on glossy white paper were safely rolled up into neat cylinders. With a little bit of miracle, he'd be on his way to see those plays in just a few days.   
  
Hi, Chris. His younger sister Meg stood in the doorway, her shoulders slumped at the sight of his suitcases. You're really going, huh? Chris sent her a wan smile and nodded. Meg was probably the one person he would miss. He loved his shy, awkward little sister. She was the one who stuck up for him with their dad when Matt Montgomery got a little too frustrated at his son's habits. Chris sighed and held out a hand for Meg, bringing her close a in a hug. He would miss her.   
  
I'm glad, Meg said softly. She glanced down at the heart-shaped locket she wore around her neck and pried it open to reveal a miniature portrait of a smiling woman in her thirties. Mom would be too, she added, cradling the picture in her palm. Chris glanced down at his mother's face and closed his eyes, willing the tears to stay unshed, stinging only in his heart.   
  
he said quietly. Meg gave a soft sob, and he wiped away the single tear that appeared near his sister's eyes. Even though a car accident had claimed their mom four years ago, it still hurt like yesterday. Chris bit back a few tears of his own as he remembered the telephone call that told him his mother was dead. He hugged his sister closer, wondering if he could really leave. Meg, I'll miss you so--  
  
What the hell is going on here? Matt Montgomery's irritated voice broke through the moment. Christian Andrew Montgomery, what the hell do you think you're doing? Meg winced and tried to slip away into a corner, but her father turned on her. And you! Margaret! What does he mean that he'll miss you?   
  
You could ask me, Chris suggested softly. Meg buried her face in her hands. She'd had to witness too many fights between her father and brother in the past four years. She didn't want to see anymore. She just wanted Chris to get away, to escape this small town life.   
  
All right, Matt said tersely. What do you mean, Chris? He glared at the suitcases that surrounded him. What does this mean? Chris took a deep breath and raised his chin.  
  
I'm going to New York. Matt raised his eyebrows sardonically.  
  
  
  
Chris replied firmly. I've always wanted to be a playwright. I'm going to be on Broadway. He caught sight of his father's face and felt his resolve drain away in spite of himself. Every bit of self-doubt he'd ever felt caught up with him again.   
  
Just like that, Matt said, disgusted with his son's dreams. The older man glared at Chris. I am sick and tired of this ridiculous obsession with Broadway, he said, his words punctuated with a sharp gesture. You want to waste your life with some waitress who'll sit and audition for your naive little shows that'll never see the light of stage, Chris? Is that what you want? You don't have the talent or the drive, Chris.  
  
Chris protested, knowing it was futile. His father would rant for a while, send him down to his office, bring up his mother, and then Chris would sent back to a life of boredom and unhappiness. He glanced over at Meg's downcast face and shook his head mentally. He couldn't let his father do that to him. If he managed to beat Chris down, then what chance would Meg have to get out of here? As he thought furiously, trying to figure the most graceful exit, his father began to speak again.   
  
You have my company, and you're going to go through what life says you should, his father continued. You're going to get your MBA, and you're going to stop this Broadway nonsense this instant, Chris. I am not going to hear another word about your silly dreams. Now, put your things away and get your ass down to my office, and I'll put you to doing some real work.  
  
Chris stared into his father's eyes. I'm going to do this. Matt shook his head angrily and began to pace the length of the room. His voice settled into his preacher's voice, droning on about the moral values that Chris should be living his life by.   
  
Broadway's just a dirty place filled with sin. Your mother and I--  
  
Dad! Stop it! Chris cried, his hands balling into fists. Mom would have wanted me to do what I thought I could! It's not fair that you keep bringing her up every time you want me to do things. She's dead, Dad, and I miss her, but I can't live my life based on what you think she would have wanted. With a defiant glare, he picked up two of his suitcases and took a step towards the door. Matt stopped his pacing and stiffened.   
  
Don't do that, Chris. Don't throw your life away like this, for God's sake! Don't you care what you your mother would think?  
  
Dad, don't do this, Meg said quietly from her corner.  
  
Don't run away from your problems, Matt continued, listing off with narrowed eyes. He shook an angry finger at his son. Don't let your pretty fantasies--  
  
Don't tell me! Chris cried sharply. The room fell silent, and he saw a small smile appear on Meg's face, giving him strength. She knew what he wanted to do, all right. Their father folded his arms and stared at Chris, waiting for the next protest to counter.   
  
Go for it, she mouthed, quietly easing back and picking up his remaining two suitcases. With a quick nod, she vanished out of the door, escaping Matt's notice.   
  
Don't tell you what, Chris? his father asked quietly, his voice dangerous. Chris took a deep breath and opened his mouth. He'd been looking forward to this moment ever since he'd first dreamed of going to Broadway. With a briefly apologetic smile, he began to sing, feeling the music course through him. This was his life, and he was going to live it.   
  
Don't tell me not to live, just sit and putter, Chris began, trying to make his words as crisp as Barbara Streisand's had been. Once he realized that his voice was in tune, he let it soar out over the air. This was his dream. He wasn't going to let his father take it away from him.  
  
Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter. Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade! He walked out the door, followed by his father, who appeared to have been stunned into silence.   
  
Don't tell me not to fly-- Chris slid down the banister, raising his suitcases as he quickly reached the marble floor and stood, a triumphant grin on his face. I've simply got to! His father began hurrying down the stairs, hampered by his business suit and shoes.   
  
If someone takes a spill, it's me and not you! Chris stared up at his father, still hurrying down the stairs. Who told you you're allowed to rain on my parade? he sang, wondering the same thing in his heart. Weren't parents supposed to encourage their children's dreams?   
  
I'll march my band out, Chris sang, striding out the front door to where Meg had left his suitcases in his beat-up old car. A thrill was pulsing through his veins, giving him a courage he'd never had before.  
  
Chris, stop it! The neighbors will hear! his father hissed, trying to hush his son and remain nondescript at the same time. A vein was making an prominent appearance on his forehead. Chris ignored him and continued to belt out the song. He felt like he'd just stepped out into the sky. He tossed his suitcases in the back and hopped into the old car.   
  
I'll beat my drum! And if I'm fanned out-- Chris turned to his father and nodded deferentially. Your turn at that, sir. His father's red face turned a very unbecoming shade of violet. At least I didn't fake it, he added, hiding a smile at his father's fury. Hat, sir, he sang, picking up Matt's baseball cap and tossing it to him. I guess I didn't make it.   
  
Chris, be quiet! his father begged, twisting the hat in his hands as he spoke. Just be quiet!   
  
But where they're on the rows of sheer perfection, Chris sang even louder, a secret pleasure at finally disobeying his father's stupid wishes running through him. It was about time he told his dad where he was at. Nobody had the right to take away what he was meant to become. A freckle on the nose of life's complexion. The cinder or the shiny apple of its eye! With a flourish, he inserted his key and turned it. As he backed out, he sang his farewell to his father through the open windows, hoping that Matt might understand why he had to leave.   
  
I gotta fly once. I gotta try once! Chris stopped backing out and stuck his head out the window. Only can die once! His father threw his hands up in the air and headed back towards the house, but Chris's melody continued to float through the air. Ooh, life is juicy, juicy and you see. I'm going to have my bite, sir!   
  
Chris inserted his Funny Girl CD and pressed play, glad that he'd insisted on spending the extra money on the player. He tapped his foot as the music filled the car, imagining himself on the stages of Broadway singing out to the actors that were playing in his show. As Barbara Streisand reached the point he'd been singing at, Chris threw back his head and belted out the song along with her.  
  
Get ready for me fame cause I'm a comin'! I simply gotta march, my heart's a drummer! Annoyed, an expensive black BMW veered a little too close to him. Normally Chris would have backed off and let the car go its way, but he just turned the volume and waved to the irritated driver.  
  
Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade! That was it, Chris decided. Nobody was going to rain on his parade any longer. Not his father, not anybody. He was going after his dreams, and he wouldn't be held back by anyway. He was going to Broadway and he was going to write plays about truth, beauty, freedom, and love-- all those things he seen in books, but had never had a chance to live. Chris took a deep breath and glanced back to change lanes to drive up to the airport.  
  
I'm gonna live and live now, he sang softly, his jaw set in an expression of pure determination. Get what I want, I know how. One roll for the whole shebang-- one throw, that bell will go clang. Eye on the target and wham! One shot, one gunshot and bam-- He pulled into a convenient parking spot, hoping that Meg would be able to make her way to come pick up his car soon. He bit his lower lip in doubt, but once he caught sight of a jet, he grinned and opened the car door to sing to his escape.   
  
Hey Broadway baby! he sang, his arms rising up in a perfect imitation of what the heroes always did in the movies. His black hair fell over his forehead, and he knew people were staring at his messy appearance and his pose, but he pushed the thought aside. He had to shed this lingering self-doubt. Here I am!   
  
Chris grabbed his suitcases and loaded up the battered cart, humming the theme to himself all the while. He jogged up to the airport with the first genuine smile that had crossed his face in several months. Hope surged through him, colouring the world a beautiful rose colour.   
  
Get ready for me fame, cause I'm a comin', he whispered to himself. I simply gotta march, my heart's a drummer. It was true. He had to do this. He was meant for more than a pretty wife at twenty-one and a place in his father's company. Chris cast a long look back at his car, at his former life, and hesitated. What if this was wrong? He didn't want to throw away his life.   
  
he said aloud. He met the curious gazes of more than a few passerbys and he turned back towards the airport, squared his shoulders, and didn't turn his thoughts toward his doubts. Nobody was going to stop him. Especially himself.   
  
he sang out loud, ignoring the raised eyebrows. He was going to Broadway. And he was going to become a famous playwright, sharing his dream with the world. He wouldn't let anyone tell him differently. No, nobody. . . is gonna. . .rain. . .on my . . .parade! 


	2. Material Girl

A/N: Moulin Rouge, Cabaret and The Money Song belong to someone besides me. If I owned them, I'd be in my London flat writing a great novel, but I'm just a teenage girl in a basement apartment with a headache and a serious lack of cash.   
  
Chapter 2: Material Girl  
  
As she struggled to open her eyes, Hindi Diamant was aware of only two things. One, the man next to her had better come through on his promise to drop her resume by a Broadway producer-- and two, she felt terrible.   
  
Hindi said softly, rolling over and prying the blanket out of-- what was his name again?-- the guy's hands. With a sigh, she pulled the tattered flannel over her body and stared out at the grimy walls. This was the part she hated the worst, strangely. It wasn't their sloppy kisses and crude attempts at pawing her slender body, or the feel of his hot breath tugging at her, or even the sex. It was waking up and feeling the pig lying against her. Like he was a lover. Like he actually mattered to her.   
  
The guy's voice was slurred, and Hindi rolled her eyes. Producer or no producer, she wasn't staying in this bed a moment longer. Ignoring her throbbing headache and sour taste in her mouth, she swung her long legs over to the side of the bed and reached for her bra.   
  
she whispered, catching sight of the large hole in the black lace. She threw a baleful glance back at last night's partner, who was now snoring contentedly with his arms wrapped around a pillow. You're going to pay for that one, buddy. With another sigh, Hindi found her skimpy black dress and rhinestone choker-- this guy had liked them cheap-- and slid her feet into her shoes.   
  
She almost fell over while balancing the siletto heels, but Hindi threw a determined hand out to catch herself. Obviously more than a slight hangover. She suppressed a groan at the thought of today's rehearsal. Harry was going to kill her. Then Mari probably would as well, if only for the principle of the thing.   
  
Can't show up hung-- oops-- Hindi stumbled her way over to the coffee machine and leaned against the dirty countertop. She glanced down, her lip curling at the stack of unwashed dishes. On second thought, maybe she'd forgo use of the kitchen. Stop by Starbucks before she went by her apartment.   
  
The guy was still asleep when she came back into the bedroom for her coat. Fumbling for her purse, she managed to find a grand total of fifty cents in between her lipstick and condoms. Hindi sat back on her heels and sighed, her breath hissing through her teeth.   
  
Stupid, stupid, stupid! she whispered angrily, pacing the length of the room and glaring at the source of all the trouble. She'd bought drinks for him, dinner, the cab ride back. she snarled, banging her hand against her dresser for good measure. He snorted a little in his sleep, but Hindi's attention was no longer on him. His battered wallet had slipped off the dresser and onto the floor.   
  
Hindi raised a delicate eyebrow and bent down for it. Her nimble fingers quickly went through his driver's license and credit cards to find--  
  
Well, well, well, Hindi said thoughtfully as she pulled out a stack of bills. So much for payday being next Friday-- she scanned the license-- Hindi's mouth curved up in the first genuine smile of the day. Finally. A bit of luck. I'll just borrow this, all right?   
  
Five minutes later, a beautiful red-haired woman slipped down the fire escape of an old apartment complex, her heels tucked under her arm and her pocket full of cash. She'd taken her resume with her. Hindi didn't want anyone that would hire this guy to even audition her. And with the amount of alcohol George Matthews had consumed last night, it was a pretty fair bet that he wouldn't remember her eye color, much less her name.   
  
Whistling cheerfully, Hindi signaled a taxi. God, she loved having money. Unfortunately, now that she'd given up waitressing, she had a lot less of it. But there were consolations, she reminded herself as she slid into the backseat of the car. Some extra cash from nights like these, and, on better nights, expensive dinners and posh rides home.   
  
the driver's voice interrupted her thoughts. Hindi glanced up from her nails to smile into the eyes of Audrey Whetton, the one-time playwright at the Rouge, and the author of the play that had shot Hindi to off-Broadway fame. Well, well, if it isn't Miss Hindi D. Hindi groaned dramatically at the nickname and threw herself back onto the threadbare cushions. How's my favorite material girl?   
  
All right, Hindi replied cheerfully, propping her cheek against her hand. Audrey looked her up and down doubtfully, taking in the rumpled dress and flattened hair.   
  
You look surprisingly cheerful for someone that just walked off a bad fuck, the older woman said lightly. She signaled and pulled out into traffic. Unless your tastes have changed, of course. Hindi snorted at the idea.  
  
Hardly. No, something much better. With a flourish, she pulled out the wad of bills. Audrey sent a quick glance back at her and her mouth dropped open several inches.  
  
Audrey whistled. Honey, what in the name of the sweet Lord have you been _doing_? Hindi winked at her friend and ran her hands seductively down her bodice, tracing generous curves.   
  
Whaddya think? she drawled, running her tongue seductively over her lips. she admitted at Audrey's openly curious look. Let's just say I-- _borrowed_ some cash from a new friend who let me down.  
  
Audrey said, finally understanding. Her teasing expression softened. That bad, huh? Hindi sank back into her seat and stared out at the streets of New York.   
  
she said softly. Audrey stayed silent for a few minutes after that, while Hindi studied her reflection. It was a far cry from the terrified California waitress looking to make some money on the side. Her sun-kissed blonde tresses had been dyed and permed into a mass of flawless dark red waves, and her pale features and wistful blue eyes had been transformed by her ever-present makeup. She'd even lost her ordinary last name to a whim of her agent after the opening of Material Girl.   
  
Sure, I've done things I'm not crazy about, Hindi said defensively in face of Audrey's silence. But hell, everybody has, right? Audrey nodded slightly, but Hindi noticed with that her friend kept her eyes fixed on the road. Big deal. Regardless of what Audrey-- or anybody else-- thought, it was nothing. Hindi Diamant was not the type to let anything get in the way of being a real actress.   
  
We're here, Audrey's voice broke through her musings, and Hindi shook it off. She glanced up at Starbucks with a wry smile.  
  
You know me too well, you know that? Hindi asked dryly. Here you go, babe. Thanks for the ride. She handed Audrey her fare and a fat tip besides, knowing that hard times had fallen on her friend. Hey, Audrey-- are you coming back to write the next show for the Rouge?   
  
The long-awaited On Spec? Audrey shrugged. Don't know. But, to be honest, it'd be better for all of us if I didn't. Hindi paused in the middle of exiting the cab.  
  
What do you mean? she asked softly. All pretense of irritation or mocking had vanished into her intense concentration. It didn't surprise either herself or Audrey. Whatever was said about Hindi, no one ever said that she didn't take her career seriously. Audrey leaned back to whisper into the younger woman's ear.   
  
Don't quote me on this, but watch yourself. Rumor in the ranks says that somebody's interested in the diamond. Somebody big.   
  
Hindi asked, her voice equally quiet. Audrey shook her head.   
  
Don't know. But with Material Girl having a brief revival, I might keep an eye on any new observers. Hindi wet her lips, trying to will her heart rate back to normalcy. If this was true, her long wait might finally be over. For the first time in four years, Broadway looked within her grasp. Hindi had a sudden vision of herself on those beautiful stages, a rope of diamonds slung around her neck while her fingertips rested on the producer's arm. . . She savoured the idea for a few moments, tasting it like a fine wine.   
  
Thanks, Audrey, she said finally, swinging her purse over her shoulder.   
I'll remember that. Audrey glanced down at the bills in her hand and looked cautiously over at Hindi.   
  
she began. The actress spun and glanced at her.  
  
Anything else?   
  
It's not everything, you know. Hindi's face remained blank, and Audrey bit back a sigh. Money, darling. Love makes the world go round, not cash.   
  
Hindi shook her head, her glittering earrings swaying from side to side. She favoured Audrey with a faint smile, and Audrey has astonished at how hard her smile had become. What had become of the pretty girl with stars in her eyes?  
  
No, Audrey. Money does make the world go round. You should know that better than anybody. I am living in a material world-- the her usual flair, Hindi blew a kiss towards Audrey and flounced off to drink away her headache.  
  
And you're a material girl, Audrey finished, a little sadly. Sighing, she put her money away and went to pick up her next customer. It was a shame, really, what Broadway did to kids. Audrey glanced up at her mirror and bit her lip at the reflection. What Broadway had done to her.  
  
An hour later found Hindi to have dismissed Audrey's parting words. Two Advil and a cup of black coffee had relieved her head, and once she'd flossed and brushed her teeth, there was nothing to stop her from humming a tune from Cabaret as she made her way to the closet. Love? Please.  
  
Money makes the world go round, the world go round, Hindi sang softly as she rummaged through her clothes. Money makes the world go round, it makes the world go-- She paused to examine a peasant blouse. She pulled off her dress and stared grimly at the outfits before her. she finished, wrinkling her nose at a tank top.   
  
Need something high class, she said thoughtfully. But not prim. She threw a satin Chinese jacket on the floor. Exotic like that, she said to herself, pacing the length of her closet like a cat. But not cheap.   
  
A whistle interrupted her thoughts, and Hindi turned to see Chas, her dance partner (and best friend, although neither would admit it) leering at her from his balcony. Stalking over to the window, she threw it open and glared at him.   
  
she yelled, cupping her hands around her mouth so he could hear her.   
  
Put some clothes on! Chas shouted back. Hindi glanced down at her bra and panties and playfully flipped him off.   
  
Put your eyes back in first! she snapped, grinning at him to let him know she wasn't offended. Chas threw his hands into the air and turned to go back in. Chuckling, Hindi drew the blinds down and sank onto a futon. If she'd read in between the lines right, somebody was interested. And, if she knew anything about men, the guy wasn't going off of how well she could read Shakespeare.   
  
Which meant she needed some great outfits to wear after the show. Her mouth tightened at the thought of reaching into her rapidly dwindling supply of cash for something like new clothes. But then, if, by some miracle, this did work out, money would be the least of her problems.   
  
Hindi said softly, shaking her hair free of a loose ponytail. With feline grace, she stood and stretched. Better take a shower before she hit the shops. Rid her of the last remnants of headache and the greasy feel of makeup. She frowned and fingered the cash she'd gotten from last night's otherwise disappointing endeavour. She'd have to pull something out of the bank. Maybe Harry would let her bum some cash off of him. He owed her something for not telling her about the producer before. Hindi grumbled as she reached for a fluffy towel. Not love, but money, she said grimly after reaching for the nail polish. Makes the world go round.


	3. Unlikely Heroes

Chapter Three: Unlikely Heroes  
  
A/N: Hello all!   
  
I hate to be a glib media attention whore, but really, I suffer from v. low self esteem *waits to laughing to finish* and must have feedback if you want prompt updates. There! See! It's really quite inspiration to have feedback, you know.   
  
  
The panic attack came swiftly after Chris had hailed a taxi and was standing in a back street, looking for an information booth and wondering how on earth he'd ended up here. The attack promptly sent him to the men's room. After he threw up in a small, grimy stall, Chris laid his head down on the cool porcelain of the toilet and hissed softly.   
  
He'd had this problem ever since his mom had died. When the phone call had come from the hospital that she was gone, he'd ignored Meg's white face and his father's choked tones over the line and gone straight to the bathroom.   
  
That had been the worst time. He'd stayed two hours in that bathroom, alternately crying and throwing up. Afterwards, he'd been able to get sick, but he'd never cried. His father had sworn at him after the funeral, wondering why in the hell Chris couldn't even show a single tear for his mother.   
  
He hadn't been able to eat for two days after that.   
  
Once, Meg had tried to convince him to go to a doctor, but he'd managed to talk himself out of it. He didn't need help. He just couldn't. . . handle. . . grief and anxiety well. That was probably part of the reason he'd never been able to ask a girl out in high school. He gave a wry smile at the thought of that exchange-- his imagination tended to fill in the blanks rather vividly-- and rose.  
  
Sighing, he wiped his mouth off and fished a breath mint out from the pocket of his jacket. He poked his head surreptitiously out of the stall, hoping against hope that no one had noticed his less than stellar entrance into the bathroom. The last thing he wanted for his new life was to gather a reputation for bulimia.   
  
Chris gave into the temptation of another wry smile as he stepped towards the sink to wash his hands. He was not looking forward for the search for a place to stay. Frowning, he reached for his wallet, wondering where he'd stuck the address of his friend. He couldn't remember it exactly, and Duke had reminded him countless times that his number was unlisted, and he needed to keep that and the address close by at all times--  
  
Chris's train of thought was interrupted by a vicious attack to his midsection. He doubled over, desperately searching for air as alien hands pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and abruptly vanished. Chris slumped to the cold tile floor, desperately trying to hold back the gagging reflex. The one conscious thought in his mind was that he really didn't want to throw up bile-- quickly followed by a sickening realization of what had happened. He sat there for perhaps thirty seconds before another panicky thought washed over him.  
  
Chris cursed, the word sounding foreign from his quiet, cultured voice. My stuff is all in there, they probably took it-- It was quickly reassured by the sight of his battered suitcases before him. His second, somewhat irreverent thought was that perhaps spending all your money on books was a good thing in the case of a mugging.   
  
Chris sighed deeply, and began to mentally add up his possessions. The complete novels of the James Joyce, all his other favorite books, some clothes, his toothbrush, and his CD collection of Broadway music. Sitting back on his heels, he hissed between his teeth. No money, no address. . . nothing worth anything.   
  
he whispered again. I'm in big trouble.   
  
His stomach cramped again, but Chris didn't bother to get up. He was completely and utterly stuck where he was.   
  
Chris said glumly. An hour in New York and he'd lost all his money-- why, he wondered grimly, did he not think to get traveler's checks? What kind of idiot carried cash in New York City? He was never going to hear the end of this from his father, he realized. God. . . could this day possibly get any worse? He closed his eyes, ignoring the sound of the opening door. Let someone else come in and mug him, steal his books and clothes. It didn't matter. His dreams were gone, fallen away into--  
  
A heavy thud startled him out of his depressed reverie and his eyes flew open to view the strangest scene he'd seen thus far in New York. A tall, Spanish man had fallen flat on his face, apparently unconscious. By his side knelt a black-haired woman and an extremely short man. Chris blinked and swiftly realized that not only would calling the woman's jumpsuit err on the side of polite, but that the short man's overalls seemed to be more paint than denim.   
  
Er. . . Chris said doubtfully. Two heads shot up to study him earnestly, and Chris swallowed. he offered weakly. Um. . . I don't suppose you could--  
  
Chris's hesitant speech was interrupted by a sudden twist of his still aching stomach and he rushed forward to the stall, retching violently. A few seconds later, he had slumped to the floor, feeling the worst he had. . . well, since his mom died, actually.   
  
Hey, there, little buddy. It was the woman, who held a cool hand to his forehead and a bottle of Evian. Behind her, Chris heard a groan and the sounds of curious whispers. He tried to push himself up, but slid back down. The woman supported him on his knees, letting him lean against her shoulder. Bad in-flight food? She paused, and then stroked his hair gently. Stupid question, I guess. You don't feel like a fever, and you're obviously new in town, so I'd guess that's the ticket.   
  
How did you--? Chris coughed and took a sip of the offered water. It soothed his aching throat, and was followed by a few Tic Tacs that the woman popped into his mouth afterwards. His back relaxed, and he sank against the woman's shoulder, feeling unaccountably grateful. The woman, he realized dimly, reminded him a little bit of his mother.   
  
The woman chuckled softly. Call it a lucky guess, there, friend. Here-- can you get up or do you need to stay down for a bit longer? Chris blinked his eyes and shook his head, still feeling a little queasy.   
  
I can get up, I guess, he replied doubtfully.   
  
All right, the woman said easily, supporting him as he stood. Hey-- T.R. N.A. You guys all right back there?  
  
Don't wowwy about uth, a voice with a pronounced lisp replied. Chris had to blink again at the sound of that. This was getting a bit to close to the peculiarities of fiction. New York or no New York, he had to be dreaming. N.A. just had anothew speww of nawcopwesy, you know.   
  
a deep voice, tinged with the faintest Spanish accent charged in. I just tripped, that is all.   
  
Of couwse, the lisp's owner replied dryly. That's why you wewe wying hewe with diwt on youw face.   
  
It was a new dance step, the Spanish man said defensively. I must be constantly preparing for On Spec, you know.   
  
Good gwief. Chris craned his neck, and caught sight of the speaker. It was the short man, who was now brushing off his overalls with more energy than Chris privately thought necessary.   
  
the woman turned back to them with a wry smile on your face. You both know that N.A. had an attack, and you both know that we've been working our asses off for the play, so lay off, okay? Let's see to the kid.   
  
Chris smiled feebly and waved off assistance.   
  
I'm great, he tottered over slightly on his way to the sink. Promise. Just. Got. He leaned his head against the mirror and sighed. Mugged. I'll be okay.   
  
The woman turned back to her two companions and raised an eyebrow. She turned back to Chris, helping him straighten his jacket and then turned him around and looked him in the eye. Got anyplace to go?  
  
Chris admitted a little sullenly. He was definitely not looking forward to this lecture. Don't carry cash, Chris. Don't be stupid, Chris. Yeah, he'd probably earned it, but he had a feeling he'd already learned that lesson.   
  
Once again, the woman surprised him. Okay then, she said cheerfully. Guys, think we can make room for him back at the apartment? She turned to Chris, a bright smile lurking behind her dark eyes. That is, if you'd feel safe. I promise, I've got credentials. I'm not a psycho killer. I'm a cab driver and a playwright. She pulled out her license and patted his shoulder as he studied it.  
  
Chris said. He was starting to feel a bit dazed by the entire thing. Maybe the mugger had hit his head instead of his stomach. That would explain a lot.   
  
Audrey exclaimed. She turned to her companions. So, guys, what do you say?   
  
  
  
Why not? sighed the Spanish man.   
  
The woman turned to pick up Chris's bags and turned to him. I'm Audrey, by the way.   
  
piped up the small man. He grinned widely at Chris and did a strange little dance that ended with him tipping an imaginary hat. Set designew and awtist!   
  
And N.A., choreographer at the Rouge. He swept Chris a sardonic bow, eyeing him doubtfully all the while. At your. . . service.  
  
Oh, knock it off, buddy. You should have been taking your medication, and you know it. Don't give me that superior act, Audrey advised N.A. sternly as they walked out of the bathroom.   
  
Chris raised a worried eyebrow. This was an unexpected turn of events. . . and that was putting it mildly. With a sharp grin, he followed. This was what he'd come to New York for, after all. 


End file.
